


Happily Ever After Every Now And Then

by bucketmouse



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/pseuds/bucketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the wall was broken, the real world came in. Happily ever after still exists if you know where to look for it. Or if you have someone to lead you to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Ever After Every Now And Then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixfirered](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=phoenixfirered).



Once upon a time, there was a man who died.

Though he died, that did not end his story. It went on to become something greater than he could have ever perceived it to be, filled with joy and tears and heroic sacrifice. It was the opus he did not write.

And they all lived happily ever after... Or some reasonable facsimile thereof.

* * *

The sun was bright in the sky, white with the gray glow of the early morning. Fakir didn't mind mornings; if you woke up early enough they were as peaceful as the late evenings. He dressed quickly and efficiently, laced up his boots, and was out on the street before many of its citizens had begun to even let out their first yawns of the day.

His morning walk took him past the broken section of the city wall. Construction had begun last summer to repair it, and the scaffolding and equipment was resting unattended nearby as it patiently waited for the workers to start that day. Fakir had sat in on the city meetings regarding reconstruction of the wall, and how they intended to make sure that the initial 'faulty construction' would not be duplicated, and the rest of the wall would be checked for such structural issues.

That was about when Fakir had left. Almost no one remembered anymore except for him and Uzura. And, presumably, Duck, but...

Fakir's feet lead him to the first stop on his morning rounds. The pond stretched before him, quiet and peaceful. "Duck!" he called, not for the first time feeling silly. She always came, though. A little yellow speck across the pond before soon enough she was paddling his way, looking up patiently when she was before him. Fakir fished the last of his morning toast from his satchel, wrapped carefully, and broke off small pieces to give to her.

"Sorry, I think I burned it a little this morning." Fakir explained as he worked. "I don't know where my head was."

If Duck noticed the little extra time the toast had spent cooking, she did not comment, quickly devouring the bread as if it was the best food she had ever eaten.

"It's getting colder." Fakir went on to say, looking out across the lake. It appeared the other ducks had already migrated. He didn't see any others. "I know you like to stay on the pond during summer, but I'd feel much better if you started coming back to the house starting today."

Duck paused in her eating of the bread to give him a look that seemed to accuse him of being too worried. Then again, not for the first time, Fakir wondered if she even remembered being the girl named Duck, being Princess Tutu and saving them all, or of he was just attributing human traits to an animal that was once special because HE remembered. Again, as he had done so many times before, he told himself it didn't really matter. He'd made a promise to always stay with her, and so far he'd been good on that promise. When he stood, Duck climbed out of the pond and joined him at his side for the rest of his morning walk around town.

Most fairytales don't bother to go over the mundane moments of life. No one ever has to go to the grocery store because they forgot milk, no one ever has to spend time studying, and - most certain of all - no one ever has to use the bathroom. This is because they are inessential to the story, so they have been cut for length, but if you were to ask any of the characters within the story they'd say the routine of life was very important indeed. Characters and readers have differing interpretations of 'important'.

It just so happened that Fakir had to make a stop by the store that very afternoon because he had forgotten to pick up more ink last time he was out. Normally such a scene would be glossed over, but it just so happened that very day that the store was essential to the story after all.

The bell attached to the door chimed when Fakir pushed it open. There were a few other patrons there at this hour - it had become more acceptable to be out and about - and no one looked twice at Duck anymore. Such a thing was still strange, but it was a minor eccentricity allowed when one was an author. Since Duck was so well behaved, she was 'charming' and 'sweet' instead of obnoxious.

It was the mention of the ballet academy that caught Fakir's ear when he would have ignored the chit-chat of other people, and he went closer to listen in.

"-new teacher is a refuge from Berlin." One of the older women said to another as they chatted with the store owner. "He said things have gotten bad in the city, that they're trying to act like nothing's wrong but there's been whispers of war."

"Another one?" The store owner echoed, which confused Fakir. He couldn't recall a first. The store owner continued- "We were pretty much untouched from it last time, so I suppose there is a reason to come all the way out here."

"But someone from the city?" The second woman said, her tone wary. "He's so young, too, how can he be a good instructor? Our academy DOES have a reputation to maintain."

"Can't be worse than a cat." Fakir muttered without thinking, three sets of eyes turning to him suddenly. He had to hold back a squirm from the attention.

"A cat teaching ballet? Oh, Fakir - trust you to lighten all of our moods." the first woman said with a smile and a laugh. "Is that from one of your stories?"

"Sort of. Yes. Um, I need to buy some ink."

 

***

 

The rest of the scene at the store was sufficiently mundane enough that it did not require dwelling on. Fakir was through with his errands and on his way back to the small room he rented by early afternoon. He was stopped several times along the way, of course, because nothing ever goes smoothly. Once to chase a big gray cat away from Duck, another to take a flyer so a man on the street would stop harassing him, and finally taking the long way down an alley that he had to duck into to avoid some of the old crowd from the academy that was still in town. Fakir didn't care to reminisce, not when he was the only one to remember how things went.

When he reached his front door, his usual scowl set deeply across his mouth. There was ONE person who somewhat remembered how things had really gone that Fakir could have a conversation with. Unfortunately, he didn't often care to talk to that person.

"Do you have a copy of the manuscript yet? It's due by the end of the week." Autor said flatly, blocking Fakir's way by leaning against the other man's door.

Sadly, he was hard to avoid when he was Fakir's editor.

"Then you'll have it by the end of the week. Out of my way, I have to get back to work." Fakir replied in the same tone.

Autor snorted and moved aside, but didn't make to leave. It seemed he would insist on following Fakir in.

"Have that duck with you again?" He commented, pushing his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose - they were an old pair and loose on the ear-pieces, liable to slide down his nose frequently. "I hadn't realized it was so far out of summer already. Remind me again why you keep it around?"

"HER." Fakir corrected, holding the door open so that Duck could waddle inside and make herself comfortable in the little bed he had made for her yesterday, right next to his writing table. He had half a mind to shut the door in Autor's face. "And I keep HER around because I made a promise to her. She was a girl once, remember?"

Perhaps it was Fakir's stern tone, or just the prompting that brought back the memories, but Autor's expression went distant for a moment before coming back to focus on Fakir again, nodding. "Right… she was close to you and … two other students. I think. I can kind of remember her, but I can't recall anything about the other two aside from that they existed."

The Prince and Rue - yes, with Duck at least there was a physical presence left behind. There was nothing of the other two aside from Fakir's own memories.

"The other two lived happily ever after." Fakir said, emptying his satchel of the ink and paper he'd picked up and finding where his pens were hiding. He didn't bother looking up to Autor. "If there's nothing else, you can leave."

He assumed rather than saw the frown across Autor's face, but the other man didn't press the subject. He pulled out a small pad of his own paper and scratched out a few notes before putting it away again.

"I'll be back tomorrow to check on the manuscript."

With that, he left Fakir in his relative solitude. Peace was another thing entirely. It seemed like every sound interrupted his concentration, every possible distraction invading his senses. No less than three times did he get up and re-make Duck's bed for her to make sure it was as comfortable as it could be - on the fourth time she head-butted his leg until he went back to his desk and made a big show of 'sleeping' so he wouldn't move her. He thought of just forcing it somehow, but writer's block was a funny thing that way. Sometimes, there was just no forcing it. Not unless he wanted to come back later and rewrite that whole paragraph to start all over again, and was always difficult to motivate himself when he was aware of this problem.

In the end, Fakir called it an early night, had a small supper, and then went to bed not long after sundown.

 

***

 

It was the academy again.

Fakir often had dreams of his youth. He didn't mind them. It gave him a chance to see _her_ again, even if it was just memories replaying over in his mind, uninterrupted by his waking thoughts. This time was different, somehow. He could feel it as he wandered through the halls of the academy, unable to turn away from the set destination of the studio. The paint was a bit worn, not the new fresh coat that it had when he attended. The halls were empty, but the door ahead of him was open. Light was streaming out of it and creating a square on the ground in the hallway, motes of dust illuminated in the air.

In short, it felt almost surreal, magical.

'Of course.' Fakir thought, moving ever-forward. 'I _am_ dreaming. And it was a fairytale back then.'

The soft footfalls of practice movements inside the room were not, however, caused by the clumsy red-headed preteen of his memory, though.

She was older now. Taller, still thin as a rail, still more than slightly awkward. One hand was braced on the barre as she moved through basic exercises, forward and back again, lost in the sense of motion. Fakir didn't know how long he stood there just watching her, if time had any meaning at all. It turned out that he never made a sound to get her attention - she merely noticed him when she happened to turn just so to catch his reflection in the mirror.

Duck let out a startled gasp as she met eyes with Fakir in the large mirror of the dance studio, turning swiftly to see him really standing there. Even if it was just a dream, how long had she waited to say something to him once more, to express herself with words?

"...Fakir..."

It had been _years_ since he had heard her voice. He was wondering if he had forgotten how it truly sounded. The light soprano made his heart ache to hear it once more.

"Fakir," Duck continued, holding as still as a statue. "_Fakir_, I-"

"Shh." Fakir moved to her swiftly, holding up a hand to not quite press a finger against her lips. Yes, he was still taller, but not by much. So close, he could count the freckles. Not every duck grew into a swan, but after dealing with the real world Fakir had discovered that even if swans were 'pretty', ducks were far more pleasant and had a beauty all their own.

"_Shh._" he repeated, softer this time. "...We shouldn't speak. Let's just dance."

He was almost afraid to touch her, afraid that she would vanish into a speck of light and be gone, and he would wake up alone in darkness. Her hands were gentle against his, however. A little calloused themselves, but warm, and they felt just right in his. As she ever was, she was a bit clumsy, but none the less Duck. Words Fakir might not have remembered come morning, but the dance he most certainly wouldn't forget.

 

***

 

Though he woke alone it wasn't in darkness. Fakir awoke well after sunrise despite his early night, and at first he was lost in hazy confusion as to what had woken him. A moment later the sound of crunching paper filtered to his ears, and he was out of the bed in a flash. Thinking only of the manuscript that he had worked so long on, he tugged the paper from Duck's beak before he bothered to look at it, heart in his throat for seconds as he realized it was half-destroyed.

A heartbeat later, he realized it wasn't his manuscript. It wasn't his paper at all, in fact. It was the flyer he had carelessly tossed in his bag yesterday. Only now did he bother to look at it. It depicted a young blonde man in some kind of military uniform standing in front of a flag Fakir didn't recognize. What could be made out of the writing said something about "SS", and that you could join up at 18. His familiar scowl crossed his face as Fakir held the flyer up to Duck.

"...Were you worried I was actually going to go fight for someone I don't even know?" he chided, offended that she seemed to think that. He crumpled up the thin paper as he continued muttering to himself. "I'm through fighting other people's battles. You should know me better than that."

Duck, of course, said nothing. But she seemed pleased when Fakir tossed the crumpled up flyer into the waste bin just the same.

By the time Autor arrived that afternoon, Fakir still hadn't left the room. He'd hit a good rhythm and had been writing for hours, heedless of the time passing. When the bespectacled young man entered the room Duck gave him a pleading look, as if somehow willing with her eyes alone for him to get Fakir something to eat.

Autor gently patted her on the head, produced a slice of bread from the lunch tin he had brought, and moved on to harass his writer.

"You're making your duck worry." Autor commented, setting the tin on the writing desk and standing back to pull out his own notepad again. Fakir set his pen aside and rubbed at his eyes, giving Autor a dirty scowl.

"What? Why? It's only- ... half passed five. Ah."

"Yes, _ah_. I understand you're finally getting something written, but you need to take care of yourself. Otherwise I won't have any more stories to edit and have published."

"You'd just find someone else to write for you. Or write yourself."

Autor snorted. "For your information, I _am_ writing. I'm just... stuck. The lead character isn't doing what I want him to do."

Fakir paused as he was putting his writing away for the late lunch break. Autor's predicament struck a chord in him for some reason.

"You're the writer," the once-Knight said flatly. "Just write the story you want to tell."

Autor glared at Fakir over the rims of his glasses.

"Easy for _you_ to say."

Their minimum of one argument with every meeting now out of the way, the rest of the lunch hour passed pleasantly enough. Autor insisted on grilling Fakir more about the time with Princess Tutu and Drosselmeyer, and Fakir couldn't really blame him. It was distressing to realize you had forgotten things that should be unforgettable, even if he didn't care to talk about them.

 

***

 

Fakir saw her again that night when he slept. School seemed more real this time, more solid. She did, too. This time he didn't cut the conversation off short, though he quickly found a loss of things to say. Thankfully with Duck that was never a problem.

"Rue was always so good at going _en pointe_," Duck said, hands resting on the barre as she practiced next to Fakir. "I can never seem to get it. My feet just don't want to work right. I can get up on my toes easy enough, just not _en pointe_. It was so easy when I was Princess Tutu, but I don't know, maybe it was too easy? Like it wasn't really _me_ doing it. Then again, I guess it really isn't me doing this, either. Webbed toes don't lend to ballet."

"You managed it just the same, in the end." Fakir murmured, only speaking when Duck allowed for a break in the conversation. "Here, I'll help brace you." he moved the step closer to her and placed his hands upon her waist.

"Did you ever help Rue practice?" Duck asked, raising her own arms to allow Fakir to take his position as needed.

"Once or twice, in class." Fakir said with a shrug, "We didn't really get along, so unless the teacher ordered it we didn't spend time together."

Duck made a face hearing that - Fakir hadn't really considered before how expressive she was, every thought or feeling clearly crossing her features, displayed for the world to see. Only his anger or annoyance was so clear. She was silent for a few seconds, as if deciding what she should say as she moved through the motions of rising to _en pointe_ shakily before rolling back down to the flats of her feet.

"Do you miss them?" she asked Fakir finally, when he was starting to wonder if he had upset her.

"Every day."

It was something he couldn't admit to anyone else. Duck had already seen him at his darkest hour, at his lowest point, and she had accepted him. Only she got to see the weaknesses. When he spoke to Autor about the past, it was just the facts, few feelings. Especially not ones now.

Duck shifted in his arms and Fakir felt himself stiffen involuntarily as he wasn't certain what she was intending. She turned to face him and an instant later, wrapped her arms around him. It wasn't a gesture for dance - just... an embrace, filled with affection and acceptance.

"I'm still here." Duck insisted, not letting go of Fakir even as he remained rigid, unsure of where he was supposed to put his hands, of what he was supposed to do. "I'm still here. You didn't abandon me, and I won't abandon you. Not for anything."

Slowly, clumsily, Fakir rested his hands around Duck's waist once more. In the dim light that filtered through the windows into the dance studio, he held her until he awoke again.

 

***

 

The next day was Friday, and knowing that Autor would be over to pick up his writing, Fakir decided to spend all day out of the room. He donned his boots and winter coat and - with Duck at his side - they set out into the early afternoon resolving to spend the rest of the day about town. Fakir had breakfast at the pastry shop, then they spent most of the time between breakfast and lunch in the bookstore (they had gotten a new shipment in that morning, Fakir helped the owner sort them out and onto the shelves), then lunch at a bistro called Ebine that had been in the area for a while but Fakir had never bothered to try. It lived up to its reputation of excellence and Fakir thought he had a new favorite place to go to for food. Since Fakir had established a pattern of avoiding people as much as possible, after lunch he and Duck went for a stroll in the park when it was at its most busy. The annoyance of the people was made up for by the entertainment of wondering where Autor could be looking for him.

By the time the sun was sinking into the horizon, Duck was tottering along slower and slower at Fakir's side. Since there was no harm in showing affection for one's 'pet', Fakir scooped her up into his arms to carry her the rest of the way back to his room. Darting into a side-street, Fakir was set to continue on when the sound of a scuffle caught his ears. When he paused to listen, he could make out distinct words.

"-I said _let me go!_" cried a high female voice, which was the only cue Fakir needed. Holding Duck safely against him, he ran the rest of the block to turn the corner and see what was going on.

A short pink-haired woman about Fakir's age was being hassled by a much taller young man in uniform. He had a tight grip on her wrist, and even from this distance Fakir could smell the alcohol on him. He set Duck aside- "Stay out of sight." he murmured, stepping up to the scene.

"Let her go." Fakir ordered, drawing up his best no-nonsense tone. It worked at least in that it got the drunken man's attention, allowing the girl to yank her wrist from his grasp and step back.

"Oh? Who's this, some civilian boyfriend?" the young man in uniform chuckled, adjusting his collar as if he was trying to straighten it, though he didn't have the motor coordination for it.

"Walk away if you know what's good for you." Fakir's hand went to his side, as if to draw a sword before he remembered that there was none there. Hadn't been one there for a long time. The young man in uniform was either too drunk to sense the danger, or Fakir had lost his touch at intimidation, because all he did was snort, fixing Fakir with a glare of his own. The intensity of it was somewhat lessened when he fixed it just past Fakir's left shoulder.

"_Look_, little boy, do you know what this means?" he pointed to the symbol stitched into a red band on his arm, the same one from the flyer Fakir had shoved at him earlier in the week. Fakir didn't like the looks of this situation. "It _means_ you don't mess with me."

The girl, previously standing back quietly scared, now darted to Fakir's side to hold on to the sleeve of his shirt.

"We were just leaving." she said to the drunken man. "Really, there's no need for any trouble-"

"_You_ aren't going anywhere-"

Several things happened at once, then. The young man in uniform made a move to grab at the girl, who screamed. At the same time, Fakir's hand darted forward to grab the man's wrist and twist it neatly behind his back at a painful angle.

Just because he didn't have a sword did not mean Fakir was useless.

"Hey-! What's going on here?!" More voices now, and more young men in the same uniform as the one Fakir had yelping in pain. He let go quickly and stepped back, his whole body tense and prepared for a brawl. If they decided that he had been hassling their friend unfairly... there were three of them and one of him. Fakir was already making calculations in his head - take out the one in the lead first, a quick hit to the solar plexus...

Rather than jump to that conclusion, however, the other men took in the state of their comrade, the frightened girl, and Fakir's own defensiveness and despite all genre tropes, they came to the right conclusion over the events. Perhaps it was because their friend had a reputation for this kind of thing. Perhaps they were very good at reading people. Perhaps they were just genre savvy.

"...Sorry, was Brauer bothering the two of you?" The lead man said, giving them both an apologetic smile. "He can't hold his whiskey, we usually keep an eye on him but he slipped out while SOMEONE-" there was a small, accusing glance to the man at his left "-was chatting up a waitress. Are the two of you alright?"

Fakir looked to the girl first, who nodded quickly and never took her eyes off the ground. Fakir looked back to the troop then and nodded as well.

"No harm done, it seems." He answered, seeing she wasn't about to talk. While the two men with the one in the lead moved to help the drunk up and get him back to wherever they came from, their talker turned his attention back to Fakir entirely. "I seem to have lost my manners - my name is Waechter, and you are?"

"...Fakir."

"Fakir! You know, it isn't an easy thing to get Brauer on his knees like that, even when he's drunk. Are you just a civilian?"

Fakir nodded, fists clenching at his side. He really didn't like where this conversation was going. "I am."

"Amazing!" Waechter said with a bright smile. "You know, we're having a recruiting drive around here next week. You should think about enlisting. We could use a skilled man like you."

"I'll think about it." Fakir answered, then nodded towards the girl who was still standing there quietly, trying to become part of the wall. "...If you'll excuse me, I need to walk her home." he didn't specify that he had no idea who this girl was. What the man in uniform didn't know wasn't Fakir's problem - let him assume what he wanted to. He smiled again - apologetic and charming.

"Of course, of course. Have a safe trip back, again I apologize for my comrade's behavior. I assure you, he WILL be reprimanded as soon as he's sober enough to remember it."

When it was finally just the two of them, Fakir had to repress a sigh. He didn't mean to volunteer to walk someone home, but what else was he supposed to have done?

"Fakir?" the girl asked, drawing his attention to her.

"Yes?"

"...Oh my gosh. I didn't even recognize you." The girl was openly staring now, looking at Fakir as one does when they see a friend they haven't come upon in years. Unfortunately for Fakir, if that was the case he had no recollection of who this was supposed to be. She didn't stand out to him at all.

"...I'm sorry, I don't remember who you are, if we've met." Fortunately for Fakir, he was blunt and suffered none of the embarrassment most do when confronted with these situations.

"It's Pike!" the girl said excitedly, taking some of her long hair and twisting it up into a bun on her head. Yes, now she looked a bit familiar. "From the academy, I know we never really talked, but - oh wow, I didn't even know you were still in town!"

From the academy. That meant she was one of Duck's friends-

Duck?

Fakir's head darted up to check and see if she was where he had left her. She wasn't. In fact, there was not a trace of her in sight. Fear gripped his heart so tightly he thought it make explode out of his chest. Pike was speaking, but Fakir wasn't hearing a word she said.

"Sorry-" he interrupted her, looking past her. "Did you see- I had a duck with me. She's my- my pet. Duck."

"A pet duck named Duck?" Pike asked with confusion. "...No, I didn't see any, I thought they all migrated a week ago."

"FAKIR!" It was Autor's voice this time, the editor running up to the pair as if he'd been running for blocks. He was never very athletic.

"Autor, have you seen-"

"Duck? Yes, she came to get me when the trouble started." Autor glared at Fakir. "She's back at your room, safe. You should be there soon too. We don't have any time to waste. ...Pike?"

"Autor? Wow, talk about a reunion... if only Lilie were here." The Narrative would like to take a moment to assure you, reader, that this was not an implication of an untimely demise for the blonde member of their trio. Last summer she'd had a whirlwind romance with a French actor and the two had married and moved to the countryside. They will go on to live happily ever after.

"I'm certain it would be a very touching reunion if she were." Autor said smoothly, sarcasm lacing his voice. "Do you need to be assisted in your walk home, miss?"

Pike gave Autor a withering look, but the sarcastic tone brought back her feisty attitude better than Fakir's clumsy attempts at being diplomatic. "I just live a block from here, I can walk it on my own, thank you." she said coldly to Autor. "Fakir ... it was good seeing you again." that tone was anything BUT cold, but before Fakir could say anything other than a quick goodbye Autor had him by the arm and was already dragging him back in the direction of the room he rented.

 

***

 

"Autor, what are you- hey! HEY, I'm talking to you!" Fakir yanked his arm out of Autor's grip as they stood in front of his door, in the same move grabbing Autor by the collar and pinning him against the wall. "What's gotten into you?!"

"I'm TRYING to keep you safe, you idiot!" Autor snapped in return, trying to shove Fakir off of him. "You aren't making it easy, you know. Your obsession with making _yourself_ unhappy must have made that man's job quite easy."

A dark look crossed Fakir's face. _That man_ didn't need any further description, Fakir knew what he meant. It took great strength of will to not resort to violence right there, after all Fakir had been through because of _that man._

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked instead, trying to stay on the subject at hand. He could pummel Autor later. After all, the other man still needed the manuscript, so he'd likely be back.

"Don't play dumb, Fakir. I thought I taught you better about stories. Don't you see where this one is going?"

"This isn't a story, this is real life. We broke his mechanism to keep writing. He's dead for good now."

"That doesn't mean he didn't leave a lasting scar on this place. The tree roots are still there. You're still able to _Write_." Autor's tone was accusing, and Fakir couldn't argue with his words. Fakir hadn't Written, of course, not in the way Drosselmeyer had. He knew he could, though. The power was there, waiting to be used. Life was no longer a fairytale, but it could easily become one again.

"See?" Autor continued, urged on by the change in Fakir's expression. "You understand, don't you? This is just the kind of hook he'd go for. The _failed knight_ turned writer, given another chance to fight someone else's battles for them."

"I already decided I wasn't going to sign up!" Fakir barked. "I made a promise to Duck. _I will not leave her for anything._"

"Then why haven't you made her human again?"

The accusing tone in Autor's voice was unexpected. It sounded so... personal. Fakir was taken aback for a moment, and in that time Autor shoved him back and freed himself.

"I-" Fakir started, stumbling over his words before remembering. "...I'm not going to make that kind of decision for her. We both agreed, to be just ourselves and nothing else."

"You really think a _duck_ is what she is anymore?" Autor scolded. "She lived too long as human, Fakir. I don't think she's a duck anymore. Even if she's got feathers."

They stood in silence for a few minutes longer, Autor watching Fakir, and Fakir intently studying the wall as he thought over Autor's words.

Finally Autor sighed. "...Sleep on it, alright? I'll come get the papers tomorrow. I can fend the publishers off for another day."

 

***

 

It was night time in the dance studio tonight. Somewhere, a clock was chiming out the hour that echoed too much to distinguish how many chimes had actually gone off. He'd been practicing in silence with Duck tonight. It seemed that even in a dream she could pick up on his mood and said nothing, just casting the occasional nervous glances in his direction.

"Duck." Fakir said abruptly enough that Duck actually yelped, almost falling over.

"Y-yes?!"

Now or never. "...Would you rather be a girl, or a Duck?" before she could reply, Fakir found the words escaping against his will as he tried to rationalize away his question, to explain it. "It isn't that I don't miss you - miss talking to you- but I don't want to make any decisions for you. We agreed to be ourselves, so I thought being human again would make you... unhappy."

"...Would me being human make you unhappy?" Duck asked quietly, not yet closing the space between her and Fakir.

"No! Of course not, I- ... I love you, Duck." Fakir had to lower his head to hide the blush that threatened to overtake his face. "Whatever 'you' that you want to be."

Duck smiled. A brilliant smile, that lifted the heart to see it.

"...I just want to be with you."

 

***

 

Fakir awoke with alarm - someone else was in his bed.

A slim, redheaded, freckled someone, who was peering at him curiously and looking just as confused.

"CLOTHES!" Fakir yelled on instinct, throwing his blanket over her and scrambling back to cover his eyes. Nevermind that his dreams had, apparently, come true. He was too used to the knee-jerk reaction to seeing Duck without enough covering on.

Of course, Duck had no clothing here, she had no reason to. So she grabbed for some of Fakir's and pulled them over herself as _something_ to wear, taking a little longer as fingers fumbled inexpertly with fastenings that she was no longer used to needing.

"O-okay!" she called when she was covered, her voice sounded a bit horse from disuse. "I've- um, I've got it. You can look now."

Fakir turned to see her standing by his bed. She had grabbed his old blue shirt and beige trousers, needing a belt to keep the trousers up.

She looked just like in the dreams. Tall for a woman but still shorter than him. Slim, redhead, freckled. _Very_ freckled.

Now was not the time to think about that.

"...How did you...?" Fakir started to ask when he had recovered his voice, but he quickly found that such things didn't matter as much as the fact that it _had_ happened. She was real, and here. And he was awake. He practically vaulted over the small bed, grabbing hold of her hand to pull her into a warm embrace.

"Oh!" Duck exclaimed in surprise, her arms wrapping around him shyly. Opposite to what had happened before. "I was going to ask you the same thing. I didn't do anything. ...I just woke up and I was like this."

It was suspicious and it made no sense, but at that point in time Fakir could not bring himself to care.

 

***

 

"Why does it have to be yellow, didn't you get enough of yellow?" Fakir asked as they looked over the winter dress that Duck had seen in the store window. First order of business - get the girl some clothes.

"I happen to like yellow." Duck said, sticking her tongue out at Fakir. He leaned in, covering her lips with his own. They had kissed several times already, between Fakir's first embrace with her and their arriving at the store, and while the magical first kiss is usually a pivotal point in any given story sometimes even characters require a little privacy.

"Alright." Fakir said when he pulled away, smiling at Duck warmly. He fished a few marks from his wallet before passing it over to her. "Get the dress, and whatever else you need. I dropped my manuscript off at Autor's today, I should get the money for it before rent is due again. I'll be at the bakery getting us breakfast." he nodded out the window and across the street where a line was already starting to form.

He didn't like the idea of leaving Duck alone, but he knew he couldn't cling to her. Besides, she was human again, they were together, what could go wrong?

Unfortunately for Fakir, such rhetorical questions call upon literary irony.

"You look happy today." Autor said as he joined Fakir in line, cutting ahead of a few people as if Fakir had been holding his place as well. Fakir was tempted to shove him back, but he was in too good a mood. Autor's hands were covered with ink stains and some paper cuts, and his own eyelids looked bruised from lack of sleep. Fakir was not quite in too good a mood for this to go unnoticed. "...Up late writing?" he asked, not even attempting to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"For your information, yes, I was. No thanks to some people." He began to dig around in the pockets of his coat as they slowly moved forward in the line, glancing up briefly to read the sign of what was made today. "Buy me something for breakfast, you owe me."

"For what?"

Autor didn't answer, instead pulling out two small leather-bound booklets and holding them out to Fakir with a stern expression. "For saving your future. These are travel papers for you and your Duck. Take them and the money you get for your manuscript and get out of the country. I don't care where to - Sweden, America, just get out of here."

Fakir looked at the booklets in silence before he took them. "...It was you that did it, wasn't it? Turning Duck human. How?"

Autor followed Fakir's gaze to the window of the dress shop.

"I wrote it. You might have more of Drosselmeyer's blood in you, but I have more skill..." Autor pushed the glasses up on his face as they had begun to slide down once more. "...heh. Even then, my one great opus ends in a contrived way, because the hero was too stubborn to follow the right path, and now I've run out of time. I had to rip off Arthurian myths a bit... maybe no one will notice."

They got to the front of the line, and Fakir just ordered three of whatever the special of the day was, paying and stepping out of the way with Autor.

"...I don't know what to say. Why?" Fakir asked eventually as they stood in the early winter cold.

"Most people would say 'thank you'. Why? Because, if you stay here, you will never write again. You need to keep writing, Fakir. No matter what happens." Autor fumbled through his pockets again before producing another little booklet, flipping it open to show Fakir. "Anyway, I'm leaving too. Don't forget what I said - you have someone to protect now. Get out of here, keep writing."

He nodded a goodbye to Fakir and stepped out into the street, pastry in hand. Though they would keep in contact through letters in later years, the last image of Autor that Fakir would ever recall was looking at the young man's back until he vanished into the crowd, never once glancing behind himself. They would never physically meet again.

At the time Fakir did not know this. He had other things to think about, such as Duck running up to him, wearing the dress with a bag on her arm. In it was another change of clothing, and the ones she borrowed from Fakir this morning. Her face was flushed from the run and the cold, and her smile was like pure sunlight. In that instant, Fakir couldn't have been happier.

"I got you something!" Duck said. "I know, technically you got it for yourself since it was your money, but bear with me, okay?" she opened the bag and produced a scarf - thick, woolen and dyed a dark color. It was both warm and soft to the touch. Living with Fakir every winter had let Duck learn a few things about him, like how he'd lost his scarf at the academy and never thought to buy a new one. "It's black." she teased softly. "I thought you'd like it."

Fakir laughed. Snow was starting to fall from the sky - small white flakes, the first snow of winter.

"It's from you, so I love it." he said, holding her hand in his own, and for the first time in a long time, believing in happy endings. The narration can assure you, reader, that they did indeed live happily ever after - or at least as close to that as real life can ever come.


End file.
